Colin Harrison - The Havana Room

Yet all this obvious inattention seemed to appeal to the clientele, for the world has too many clean well-lit places to do business, including the conference room, the golf course, and the hotel suite. Each has its advantages. But there are certain deals that are harmed by sunlight, a printed agenda, and juice and muffins on the buffet. Like insect colonies and creeping plants, these intrigues need a bit of moisture and darkness to thrive. The men in the Havana Room, I noticed, generally only made eye contact with the others in their own party, and didn't display the occupational gregariousness of salesmen and deal makers. Instead they hunched and glared, rotating their heads toward passersby with furtive irritation. I didn't see a phone or laptop in use, and if these items were not expressly prohibited, then I supposed that they were looked upon with disdain. The room's ascendant technologies, I guessed, were the bluff, the grimace, and the long silence. In a man's shrug, millions might appear, or a lifetime's labor turn to ash.

Allison came back into the room a few minutes after eleven, followed by an outsized man with a large head of dark hair and wide shoulders. He turned his head as he walked, swinging his gaze around like a sledgehammer, taking in the whole room.

"Bill?" Allison said. "This is Jay Rainey."

He offered me one of his ample hands, and I found myself looking into a genial, unknowably handsome face.

Allison turned to me, eyes a little crazy, I thought, and said, "Bill's ready to look everything over."

"Great, great," said Jay. "The seller's attorney and the title guy will be here at eleven-thirty."

"I'll see what I can do. I'm not promising anything."

He nodded, somewhat casually, considering I was the one helping him, then excused himself to the bar. He was, I saw, at that point when a young man starts to become an older man. Perhaps a vigorous thirty-five, with a deep chest, not in the exaggerated way of bodybuilders, but as a natural example of superior proportion. Later I learned he forced himself to do three hundred push-ups each morning, less for fitness than as a daily test of will. As a bulwark against despair. He looked heavy- not fat but heavy, made of denser, more difficult stuff. You couldn't imagine knocking him over very easily. His strength came up from the ground in him, the kind of slow-mule power that is good for lifting and climbing and other activities- as Allison no doubt already knew.

"Tell me about yourself, Jay," I said when he returned.

"I'm basically a- well, I buy a little, sell a little." He smiled. "Nothing very big, just things as they come along. This is a good building. It's got a couple of tenants- small companies paying decent rents, it's got good systems and I think I can add a floor on the roof, add some kind of penthouse apartment."

A man can talk himself into anything, of course. "Three million, Allison said."

"Yes."

"You have a regular lawyer?"

Jay nodded. "I do, I do, but he's traveling and the seller insists on closing the deal tonight. Threatened to pull his offer."

"Has your lawyer seen the contract?"

"No."

"Couldn't the seller fax the contract to him?"

He nodded at the reasonableness of the question. "I asked his office if I could do that but my guy is in Asia, asleep, and by the time he wakes up, it'll be too late."

I hummed a small agreeable noise as if this explanation made perfect sense, although it didn't, for few lawyers involved in deals in Asia also handle small-time Manhattan real estate transfers- where three million dollars is, as I said, minuscule, and unless somebody had changed the time zones, it was now late morning in the Far East.

"What about the title search?" I asked. "You can't buy property without clear title."

"I ordered it myself. As I said, the title man should be here tonight."

"How about a survey?" I asked, meaning the official drawing of the property's lot lines and location.

"Got it."

"You had the building inspected?"

"Sure."

"You got a written report?"

He opened his briefcase and took out an engineer's report. I flipped through it. According to the write-up the building was lucky to be standing, and would be rubble the next time someone slammed a door. But that's the way they're always written on old buildings.

"So we need a contract, a title, some tax and transfer forms, and some money. Which brings up the question of how you're doing this. Is there a bank involved?"

"No."

"All cash?"

"No, it's a little creative, actually."

I waited, saying nothing.

"Four hundred thousand and a property swap," he said.

"Who is paying the four hundred?"

"They are."

Three million dollars minus four hundred thousand equaled Allison's thumb-suckable two-point-six million dollars.

"What's the other property?"

"Acreage on Long Island, way out, ninety miles out there on the North Fork, looking over Long Island Sound. Beautiful property. They're putting in vineyards and golf courses out there, you know."

I nodded. "I better look at the contract."

"Allison said you'd worry about the small stuff."

"Sure."

"You come in every day?" asked Jay.

"Just about."

"I guess you're retired?"

"I guess I am. Okay, so, Jay, I feel it's in your best interest if you know the following things." I looked straight into his eyes. "First, walking into a steakhouse at night is not a good way to find a lawyer. For all you know, I might not even be a lawyer. I am, but the point is I might not be. Second, you don't know anything about me. I haven't practiced law in a while, Jay. I've had a setback or two, okay? Also, I haven't maintained relations with any title company people, I don't know anyone in the city departments anymore, okay? I haven't been watching the little language changes, I don't know how the tax forms might've changed. I'm out of practice, is what I'm saying. What I'm telling you, Jay, is that I'm not competent to be your attorney for this transaction. If it were a little ranch house out on Long Island, I'm sure I could handle it. But this deal involves two big, valuable properties and a-"

"How much do you want?" Jay asked. He was stirring, moving his shoulders around.

"I'm not trying to drive the fee up, Jay." I stared at him. "I'm trying to be honest here."

His brow fell angrily. "Oh, bullshit."

"Excuse me?"

"I said this is bullshit."

"What do you mean?"

He lifted his hands, palms up. "Allison told me you managed some big real estate transactions, the sale of that bank building up on Forty-eighth Street. What was that, like three hundred million? With all sorts of complicated syndication of ownership?"

This was true, but I hadn't told Allison the first word about the deal, though it was easy enough to look it up on the Internet.

"Right?"

Allison had checked me out, I realized. "Well-"

"Well what? C'mon, I'm in a fucking jam here, Bill. And you're telling me you're not qualified?" He leaned forward. "Look, really, if it's about the money, I can pay you a good fee." He pulled a checkbook out of his suit pocket. "I'm putting money down, right here, for your services and you don't want it?"

I put my hands up to slow him down. "Let me ask you a couple of questions."

He sat back. "Shoot."

"Who owns the building you're buying?"

"Some Chilean wine company."

"Why did the deal drag out so long?"

"I don't know. They didn't offer enough at first."

"They're buying up empty acreage out on Long Island?"

"Sure, why not? It's beautiful oceanfront property." Jay grinned expansively. "God's not making any more of it. They're going to put it into vines."

"Plant grapes, you mean."

"Right."

"How did you arrive at the price?"